Page 21

Pulling us into a very suspicious huddle, I lower my voice to barely above a whisper, feeling the warmth of their bodies as they lean in. "There's a chance Toronto's letting him go." The words taste bitter on my tongue, like I've swallowed something rotten.

"What?" Ridley's head jerks toward me, his brows furrowing deep, eyes widening with that intensity he usually reserves for third period comebacks. "Why the hell would they do that?"

"They're saying the recovery timeline's too long.

That it's uncertain." My jaw clenches so tight I can feel the muscles strain along my temples.

I flex my fingers, trying to release some of the tension building in my chest. "Tony, Derrick's agent, has been doing what he can, working the phones day and night but the team's radio silent. Not even returning his calls anymore."

"Jesus," Devan mutters, running a hand over his face. His wedding ring catches the light. "The kid's what, twenty-two? They're gonna throw away his whole career over this?"

"Almost twenty-three," I correct, remembering the birthday plans I've been quietly making. "He's scared shitless. He tries to hide it behind that smile but I've seen him staring at his phone, waiting for news that never comes."

Tor folds his arms across his chest, thoughtful, his captain's face firmly in place. "What do you need from us, Bast? You know we've got your back."

"Just. . .be there," I say, glancing back through the archway where Derrick sits, his laugh a little too loud, his posture a little too stiff.

"Preseason's still weeks away. If he gets traded, cut, or benched, we don't know which way this is going to fall.

He's trying to act like he's okay, putting on a brave face for everyone, but I saw it this morning.

The headaches are back. Found him in the bathroom at five AM, lights off, head in his hands. "

"Concussions are brutal," Ridley says, his voice softer than usual, tinged with the memory of his own battles. "You think you're fine, back to normal, then it slams you out of nowhere. One bright light, one loud noise, and you're down for the count again."

"Yeah," I agree, swallowing hard. "And hockey players are the worst at admitting pain. We're all trained to push through it, skate it off, pretend it's nothing. He's still trying to prove himself, thinks showing weakness will just confirm their decision."

"He's lucky he's got you," Tor says, giving me a knowing look, the same one he gave me when I first admitted my feelings for Derrick months ago.

I knew then what was happening between us, the electricity that sparked whenever our eyes met across a room, but I convinced myself it meant nothing.

He was in Toronto, playing for the Stars and I was here in Seattle.

Distance was our reality, our shield, our excuse.

It couldn't be anything but what it was, fleeting, temporary, impossible.

A moment I deliberately walked away from, shoulders squared, jaw clenched, telling myself it was the professional thing to do.

The smart thing. The safe thing. A moment I couldn't stop replaying for months after.

A moment I thought I'd successfully buried in the past, locked away behind the fortress of my focus on the game, on my career, on my art. It wasn’t until the moment that high-velocity puck struck him down on the ice, everything I'd denied came rushing back with the force of a broken dam.

I don't answer. Because luck has nothing to do with it. If anything, he's unlucky he got stuck with me, someone who's still figuring out how to open a damn door without slamming it shut again. Someone whose own walls are so high that sometimes I wonder if I'm helping or hurting him more.

"Whatever the outcome we'll do what we can to help." Tor reassures me with a back pat, his hand warm and solid against my shoulder blade, grounding me in the moment.

Through the archway, I hear Brea's voice float in. "We've got tickets to the B. Ardent gallery in two months! Have you ever seen any of his works?"

Ridley grunts. "Art's not my thing. Walking around some pretentious art gallery pretending I know what the hell is going on. That’s a no, Luna.”

"But you'll go," Brea says sweetly, sauntering over to his side. "Because I love you."

He mutters something under his breath that earns him a kiss on the cheek.

My stomach knots. I go still.

B. Ardent. The show. I hadn't forgotten. I just didn’t expect anyone in this room to get tickets. Well, Fuck.

My worlds are colliding faster than I planned. They're going to see the paintings of Derrick. In a matter of weeks. It’s too soon and I'm not ready.

I glance at Derrick again, just as he laughs at something Alexis says. He catches my eye across the room, his expression softening into something private, something that squeezes around my heart like a fist.

Before I can spiral further, there's a knock at the door.

Brea leaves us and opens it, revealing a tall, imposing figure in the doorway.

The man stands at least 6'5", his light brown skin catching the golden afternoon light streaming through the windows.

A silver eyebrow ring glints as he shifts, balancing a large bag of takeout and a gift bag in his hands.

The takeout sends savory aromas wafting into the house.

He follows behind Brea as she ushers him through the foyer and into the opposite sitting room.

His hazel eyes sweep confidently across the gathered faces before landing on Devan, where they linger with unmistakable recognition.

I feel Devan tense beside me, his entire body going rigid. Before I can lean over to ask if he's okay, he abruptly stands and makes his way over to Lia and the baby, putting deliberate distance between himself and the newcomer.

"Tobias Groves," the man announces, raising his free hand in a casual wave that somehow manages to command everyone's attention. His closely cropped black hair accentuates the sharp angles of his handsome face. "Trade from Vegas. Brought some food to introduce myself to the neighborhood."

"Tobias," Devan says with such forced calm that I can practically feel the strain in his voice from across the room. His fingers fidget against his thigh. "Didn't know you were already in town. Thought you weren't arriving until next week."

"Moved in next door yesterday," Tobias replies with an easy confidence that borders on arrogance.

He sets the food down on the nearest surface.

"Alexis is leasing me her house. Said I could crash until I figure out if this team's keeping me.

Thanks for that by the way." He nods his head towards Tor, who returns the gesture with a captain's welcome.

"You know each other?" Lia asks, brows raised in curiosity as she looks over her shoulder toward Devan, bouncing the baby gently. The tension between the two men is palpable enough that even she's noticed it.

"We've. . .crossed paths," Tobias says, shooting Devan a look loaded with unspoken history. His jersey number 35 is emblazoned on his casual team hoodie, a stark reminder that whatever their past, they're teammates now.

I clock it all though, Devan's tight shoulders, Tobias's guarded eyes, the careful distance they maintain. The air between them crackles with something complicated and unresolved.

Interesting. Very interesting.

The conversation drifts as food is passed around and laughter returns.

I end up beside Derrick again, brushing our knees together, grounding myself in the familiar.

He leans against me with a sigh that's more tired than content.

There's a heaviness to him this evening, something weighing on his shoulders that wasn't there when we arrived.

Before I can ask if he's ready to go, his phone buzzes. The screen illuminates his face with that ghostly blue glow, and something in his expression shifts, closes off. He reads the screen, then stands. "I need to take this."

He disappears out the back door, leaving behind the faint scent of his cologne and the warmth where our bodies had been touching. The loss of contact leaves me unbalanced.

I give it two minutes before my own nerves spike, watching the seconds tick by on my watch. Every moment he's gone, my mind races with possibilities, none of them good. I'm about to follow him when a voice cuts through the noise, slicing the air like a blade.

"I think my water just broke," Alexis says calmly.

Silence crashes over the room, as sudden and complete as if someone had slammed a door.

All heads whip toward Alexis, who's wide-eyed and standing in a puddle, her hands instinctively cradling her belly. The shock on her face mirrors everyone else's.

Tor blinks, his fork suspended halfway to his mouth. "What?"

Alexis lets out a shaky breath, a mixture of disbelief and determination crossing her features. "You heard me, Bailey. It's go time." There's a tremor in her voice, but steel underneath.

Brea jumps to her feet, nearly knocking over her chair. "Shit, we need a bag, your bag, who packed the bag?" Her hands flutter in the air, seeking purpose.

Tor's already moving, switching seamlessly into crisis mode. "It's in the car. Bast, you've got Lia. Ridley, get Brea. Devan, stay with the baby!" His voice carries the same authority he uses on ice, directing plays without room for argument.

Alexis holds up her hand to stop us from moving around like chickens without heads.

Despite being the one in labor, she's somehow the calmest person in the room.

"Torrance Bailey. Just us, remember. I don't need the entire team to have this baby.

" She tries to smile, but grimaces in pain, her knuckles going white as she grips the edges of her sundress.

Tor blows out a breath and there he is, our calm, controlled captain, ready to help his wife bring their baby into this world.

The panic vanishes from his eyes, replaced by a focused intensity I've seen countless times before.

"I will keep you all updated," he says, before ushering Alexis out the door, one hand protectively at the small of her back.

Just like that, the next chapter begins, chaos and all. A new life about to enter the world while all our lives shift to make room.

I'm still staring at the back door, where Derrick hasn't returned. The handle remains untouched, the space beyond it empty, and I've got a sinking feeling the call he just got might be the one we've been dreading.